Good Light
by Pinkie Tuscadaro
Summary: Albert doesn't die in the crash...


Driving. The speed was it's own high. It was easy to forget things when he was driving, easy to forget the things he had screwed up. Albert looked at the passenger window and he could still see his son's handprints on the glass.

He was so sure it could work, that he could make it work. He'd done so many things. Medical school. He became a surgeon. He was the head of the department. Professionally he could do anything, he was like superman. His quick intellect, his coolness under pressure, his rationality, it all worked in his favor. Maybe all that bottled up pressure spilled out in his personal relationships. Maybe he hadn't been the best husband or father. Maybe these things were true.

He'd been so certain it could work. He gripped the steering wheel and weaved into traffic, the red lights in front of him becoming a blur, like those photographs taken at high speeds and all you can see is the trail of lights.

Photographs. The thought of his son's hobby and his dark room filling him with remorse. Remorse, the thick bitter emotion like honey gone bad, sticking to his tongue. He'd constantly clashed with Craig in regard to that hobby. He'd lost his temper when Craig had stayed out past dinner time taking photos because of the "good light". He'd found that photo album he'd made and tore it to bits. He'd destroyed the darkroom.

The road disappeared beneath him. Cars slipped past, he weaved in and out of the traffic, the car's speedometer inching up and up. White knuckles on the steering wheel. Faster. It was the only thing that could take away the pain.

He'd fucked it up again. Attacking his son. Albert licked his lips. It was almost as though he couldn't help it, couldn't stop it. Walking away this time, knowing he was losing his temper. That was something the anger management classes had taught him. When the temper is a dog on a fraying leash walk away. He'd felt it, felt the anger coursing through his veins like electricity. He'd left. He hadn't counted on Craig following him.

So he'd followed him, and he couldn't stop himself from the verbal attack. Joey, the car lot, the goth girlfriend. It was all ammunition in his war against Craig, his war against everyone. He thought he had known the depths of hate when Julia had left him for Joey, but he hadn't known. Not until Joey took Craig did he know the depths of hate a human heart can reach, and it burned inside of him.

Faster, faster. The car gliding like some live animal beneath him and around him, the engine purring. Oh how he had fucked it up. In more rational moments he knew that it was the best thing at the time for Craig to leave. He'd needed to get his shit together. You can't grab your child and throw him against a wall because you had a bad day at work. You can't strap him because he's late for dinner or leaves a cup on the table without a coaster. That is not acceptable behavior and he knew that, he accepted that. But it was time for Craig to come home. He'd been in anger management. He thought he had things under control.

Tonight had shown him that he had not had things under control. The same rage had come to the surface, the same red haze, the same lack of thought and insight into his actions. He'd hit him again, when he had made the sacred vow that he would never hit him again. He'd attacked him physically and verbally, he'd tried to tear him down. Blinking back tears, the lights of the cars in front of him blurring, weaving in and into traffic, tighter and tighter.

Craig had said, "Being at Joey's is stability," when he'd wanted to believe that it was with him, his father, that he would find stability. He saw in Craig's eyes that that wasn't the case. There were less of the habits and behaviors that Craig had had when he had lived at home. There was less of the flinching away, the guardedness, the almost stutter. He smiled more easily. His guard was down, or lowered at least. And these positive changes were due to Joey, not him.

The car in front of him braked and at the last second he saw it and slammed on his brakes, the car smoking and skidding to a halt mere inches form the back bumper of the other car. Shaking, Albert pulled the car over to the side of the road. What was he doing?


End file.
